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Jane and I 



JANE AND I 






Jane and I 








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PRIVATELY PRINTED 

MCMXXII 







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COPYRIGHT, 1922 
BY FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT 



m 17 1922 
DCLA65g607 



v* 



To 
JANE'S MOTHER 

IN WHOSE LIKENESS JANE WAS 



JANE AND I 



Jane and I 



w. 



I 



E WENT bass fishing last summer — Jane 
and I. 

She was nine. Her somewhat serious, thought- 
ful face had become well rounded by simple 
country living and her cheeks were tanned and 
tinted by the mountain air; her big, clear blue 
eyes — the whites made a deeper white by the shade 
of blue in them — were marked by full dark brows, 
exquisitely curved ; her forehead — unscarred by 
any troubled thought — ^ expressed serenity; her 
child's nose was not yet fully formed, nor her 
mouth, but somehow they were distinctly Jane's 
nose and mouth ; her brown hair was heavy, very 
heavy, and none too orderly for she was just 
learning to care for it herself and her fingers were 
not very nimble; her figure was gently perfect 
— beautiful as only youth can be beautiful. Her 
clothes were nondescript for she liked to romp, 
free limbed, with her brothers, disregarding her 
appearance. 

I asked her if she wished to come with me and 
she answered, 

"Yes, Daddy." 



lo JANE AND I 

But I was not quite sure for I thought she 
might be only trying to please me. She Hked to 
please me. We were good comrades. So, too, 
was she a good comrade with her brothers — 
and with everyone for that matter. However 
I did not question her further because I desired 
her companionship. 

We went to the garden for worms and then 
down the hill to the boat-house — she keeping 
close to my side. She always kept close to my 
side, taking my arm in an old fashioned way. 
She was like one of Mrs. Alcott's girls. I often 
called her "Old Faithful." 

We opened the boat-house, collected our poles 
and the oars and the anchor, and carried them 
to the row boat on the shore where with the 
other children we spent so much summer time. 
I helped Jane to her seat in the stern — a timid 
little body ordinarily but confident now because 
I was with her. She always brought home to 
me the wonder and glory and responsibility of 
my relationship to her, the majesty of that 
common every-day title of father, which even 
kings do not know except as they have children. 

I shoved the boat over the yellow sand and 
out into the gray blue inland water. Opposite 
our starting point and less than a mile away 
stood a ridge, tree clad half way up but from 
there plotted out in square fields. Above this 



JANE AND I II 

there was a vast arc of sky. To the left the 
rocky shore bordered with pines ran some three 
or four miles north by west, toward the White 
Mountains. We had not gone a hundred yards 
before we saw Washington. This was fifty miles 
away but from those heavy slopes ran lesser hills, 
line upon line of them, reaching to the head of 
the lake. To the north the sky was overcast 
but above, it was clear. Showers whipped by a 
high wind were evidently roaming about but we 
did not care. We were going toward the foot 
of the lake and were tempered to all sorts of 
weather. 

I faced Jane as I rowed. Often she looked 
at me and smiled. She smiled easily and I made 
up fool things — nonsense and doggerel — to 
amuse her. Now and then she would expostulate, 

"Daddy!" 

But I knew she was pleased, and so was glad 
to play the clown. 

The blue sky was overhead — such a lot of 
blue sky. But the nearer to the middle of the 
lake we came, the clearer we could see to the 
north the slate gray showers drenching the 
distant heights. 

"Do you think we'll get wet. Daddy?" she 
asked. 

"I don't know," I answered. "But we must 
catch a fish for Ann." 



12 JANE AND I 

Ann was her sister — four years old. That 
was a stock line of mine. As it happened we 
nearly always did catch a fish for Ann, no matter 
how poor our luck might be otherwise. 

We rowed slowly to the small island which 
was our goal, anchored some forty feet off the 
eastern point, and prepared our lines. Jane 
baited her own hook. She did it clumsily but I 
did not offer to help, for I wished her to learn to 
do things for herself. We cast our lines into the 
dark water and waited. A deep, contented 
peace settled upon me. 

I feel it yet when I go back to that time. The 
world had long been vexed and still was. Be- 
yond this charmed corner there was chaos. Here, 
however, it was as though there had never been 
war nor rumors of war. It was impossible to 
associate the hectic acts of men with this tri- 
umphant arc of steady blue overhead, so un- 
changing. And the hills — the everlasting hills 
— were so fixed, so stable. And Life as expressed 
by this young girl was so fixed, so stable, so 
eternal! It was impossible to think anything 
else. There was a touch of awe in the atmos- 
phere. We watched, from time to time, the 
turbulent elements to the north and without 
fear marveled at their might and their beauty. 
We were not afraid of anything at that time — 
Jane and I. We were together — I as much 



JANE AND I 13 

under the protection of her budding youth as 
she under my greater strength and experience. 
We were at peace. I do not suppose that on 
earth I could more completely fill my soul with 
living peace. And God — in a very broad sense. 
Jane was of me and I of her and we were both 
one with eternity. 

Not that we spoke of those things — or even 
thought very much about them. Our chatter 
was matter of fact enough. From all directions, 
too, the matter of fact world pressed in upon us; 
voices from a nearby grove; the laughter of 
children playing in the water to the left; the 
mill bell in the village below the dam; the dart- 
ing of birds here and there ; smoke from chimneys ; 
ripple of water against the boat ; a gust of wind 
that blew her hair. But these common details 
made our silent mood the more impressive. 

We had no luck with our fishing. We caught, 
as I remember, our one bass for Ann, and then 
a stronger wind, with mist in it, and a nearing 
of the black clouds decided me to up anchor 
and return. I hauled the wet rope into the boat 
hand over hand, reeled in the lines, and adjusted 
my oars in the oar locks. Then swiftly the 
storm swept down upon us. The slightest trace 
of fear disturbed me. A heavier sense of re- 
sponsibility settled upon me. But Jane, startled 
a bit at first, sat tight in her seat. She was 
confident. 



14 JANE AND I 

The wind stiffened and the waves broke 
sharply against our bow as I turned and pulled 
straight into the storm — the only way home. 
I did not feel there was any immediate danger, 
but of course in such a situation trouble is always 
possible. Soon I was pulling with all my strength 
and making scant headway. This was a real 
storm though in miniature. I stiffened to the 
task, calling upon my reserve strength — glad 
that I had reserve strength. Inch by inch I 
progressed, but water was now coming in over 
the sides. I was anxious to keep on, for I knew 
her mother would worry, but I soon realized I 
was taking too big a chance with Jane. Glancing 
over my shoulder I saw a sandy stretch on the 
shore, turned the boat, and pulled with the 
wind. We shot into shallow water. The boat 
rocked and Jane clutched the sides. I jumped 
out and dragged the craft safe in. Then I lifted 
Jane in my arms — she felt gloriously heavy 
and substantial — and carried her through the 
driving rain to the shore. Hand in hand we ran 
for the shelter of a cottage piazza. She was wet 
to the skin, but happily excited over the ad- 
venture of it — youth victorious. 

A little later we rowed home over a calm lake. 
The sky was blue again. The sun was warm. 
We went up the hill to the house, tingling and 
content, carrying our fish for Ann. 



JANE AND I 15 

II 

We went to a Fair — Jane and I and 
mother and Brooks and Kent and Ann and 
Henrietta, who so loved to see Jane dressed 
in her finest. Amid much excitement we pre- 
pared our lunch and bundled into our heavy 
things and piled into the car. Jane wore her 
brown coat and the black velvet Tam o* Shanter 
that never would stay put. It drooped back 
from her forehead, or it bobbed first over one ear 
and then the other. She did not care. 

It was a fine clear morning in the early Fall, 
and we were driving over country roads — 
through stretches of woods, up hills, along the 
shores of lakes and past deserted farms. In 
back with the other children Jane was keenly 
anticipatory. Fakirs and Merry-Go-Rounds and 
Lord knows what all were ahead. I drove for 
an hour and a half, hearing those clear voices 
behind me. Finally we climbed a last long hill, 
and at the summit saw spread out before us a 
panorama of loveliness — a serried horizon of 
distant mountains with the lesser hills in the 
foreground. And an illimitable expanse of frosty 
blue sky. Going half way down the decline we 
found ourselves on the outskirts of this tiny 
New England village. We drew up beside the 



i6 JANE AND I 

road, looking down on the holiday crowd and the 
tops of the tents. 

This Fair is unique. Because it is so small it 
is called the World's Fair, and after the English 
custom is held in the middle of the street. It is 
attended by farmer folk for miles around with the 
usual summer visitor happily absent. We re- 
mained so late in the season that we classed our- 
selves as natives. 

We went first into the exhibition hall, no 
larger than a shed, and viewed the giant pump- 
kins, the late strawberries, the big potatoes, the 
pick of the apples, and a few samples of needle 
work. But we were all filled with the zest and 
excitement that comes from the enjoyment of 
little things in the country. Coming out, we 
paused a moment at the three or four crates of 
turkeys and geese, with a couple of white rabbits 
thrown in for good measure, which comprised 
the poultry exhibit. We took a snap shot of the 
plump birds and the children. We have hun- 
dreds of pictures of the children and their ac- 
tivities — a complete pictorial history of their 
lives. I have before me now one of the snap- 
shots taken of Jane on that pleasant Fall outing. 
It shows her standing back to the camera, her 
Tam o' Shanter off — lost, likely enough, for 
she was always losing her things — her hair 
blowing in the breeze, her left arm slightly raised 



JANE AND I 17 

as in apprehension she watches her younger 
brother astride a wooden horse on the Merry- 
Go-Round. How proud she was of her two 
brothers, and what respect she had for their 
hardier natures! It made it easy for them to 
tease her. 

We all mixed with the crowd and watched the 
funny men selling hot dogs; stopped before the 
tented side shows promising such strange content; 
stopped before an eager little man selling fountain 
pens; stopped before some marvellous wrestlers 
waiting to meet all comers; stopped to watch 
the young farmer boys, dressed in their best, 
throw base balls at the stuffed nine-pins; stopped 
before a lean, tall man in a sombrero, who had a 
crate of noisy rattle snakes to advertise the oil 
he was selling. We watched him because he was 
so intense. When he spoke, the cords in his 
neck stood out. He grew as impassioned as a 
revival preacher over the value of his lotion. 

So we went on along the winding village street 
— the purple hills always in the background 
and the clean mountain air sweeping across — 
until we came to the church, where, in the road 
below, young oxen were straining at heavy loads 
for prizes. Here we stopped, rounded up the 
whole family, and worked our way back to the 
car for lunch. We opened the big Japanese 
basket with its interesting layers, and there was 



i8 JANE AND I 

as much excitement as though we did not know 
what was in it, when as a matter of fact we had 
all watched it packed in order to be sure there 
was enough for everyone. We had good appe- 
tites and enjoyed every mouthful — Jane par- 
ticularly. She was fond of good things, eating 
heartily and wholesomely, laughing as she ate. 
So, too, did the others but it was she I remember 
in more distinct detail now. She was so satis- 
factorily substantial — like a growing tree. This 
was not all she was, but, perhaps because of the 
surroundings of this and past summers, I as- 
sociate her with the sweet and simple things of 
nature. 

But the great hour was still to come — the 
hour, as it happens, which belongs to Jane and 
me alone. There was to be, it seems, a dance 
that afternoon in the town hall. Jane and I 
had joked about the time when she should be 
big enough to attend such affairs with her Daddy. 
She liked to dance, and in the big room of our 
summer home we had been practising steps to 
the music of a phonograph. As we lunched — 
it happened we were parked before the door of 
the hall — we watched the floor being made 
ready. 

"You and I will have to try a step," I said to 
Jane. "Shall we, old lady?" 

She was delighted. She was so easy, in all 



JANE AND I 19 

things, to please. Here was a real dance. It 
was her dehut as a young woman. 

The hall was crowded when the fiddles, and 
the piano and the bass drum and cymbals began 
their rhythmic noise, but we pushed our way in. 
It was a curious gathering of hardy folk in sweaters 
and flannel shirts, coming and going fresh from 
the crisp air of the village street. It was a primi- 
tive crowd, rather, but filled with good humor. 
Jane's young face was distinctive here. I saw 
many glance at us and smile pleasantly. I 
slipped my arm around her supple waist, grasped 
her warm hand, and in we mixed. She took her- 
self very seriously. This was an important 
moment, for she was dancing with Daddy, and 
feeling, I suppose, quite grown up. She must 
watch her step. She must not disgrace me by 
tripping. She must prove herself worthy of this 
honor. I knew how she felt, and it made me 
proud until my face glowed. I looked ahead as 
we spun round and round the crowded hall — 
looked ahead five years, ten years, seeing her 
grow more and more beautiful, more and more a 
daughter, more and more my daughter. I was 
selfish, for it was just she and I in my thoughts. 
I was to keep young for her. She was to help 
me keep young. 

The music stopped. With the others we ap- 
plauded loudly for more. The piano began to 



20 JANE AND I 

thump and we were off — I having much to do 
to prevent the httle figure from being bumped. 
Now and then, as we came full into some clumsy 
couple, — or perhaps we ourselves were clumsy, 
— she glanced up from the floor and smiled. I 
have those clumsy folk to thank for that. 

Again the music stopped, and as I led Jane 
toward the door I saw more men and women — 
those seated around the edge of the hall — look 
at us in kindly fashion. We went out to see 
mother, and to brag a little to the other children 
who had been left outside and had perforce to 
be content with peeking in at the windows. We 
seemed to be delighted with our selfishness, and 
when the music started again returned proudly 
to join the grown-ups — Jane and I. 



J 



III 



ANE had learned to dance the Scottish horn- 
pipe. She had learned. She had few natural 
aptitudes, and acquired most of her little ac- 
complishments by hard work. Though her figure 
was so perfect she was inclined for some reason 
or other to be clumsy. Her sense of rhythm was 
undeveloped — like her ear in music. Struggle 
as she might, she could not carry a tune though 
she loved to sing. How human this awkward- 



JANE AND I 21 

ness made her! I recall it even more vividly 
than her graces. 

She had been to dancing school under Miss 
Munro — a young woman whose eyes and smile 
were in themselves a dance. By strict and serious 
attention to her instructor, Jane had mastered 
the steps of the Scottish hornpipe until she could 
go through them creditably. I was proud of her 
effort because she had overcome so much. Often, 
in the summer, I sat down at the piano and 
played the tune while she did her dance for me. 

She never refused. Modest she was almost to 
the point of shyness, but she fought back her 
own feelings and did her best. Always she did 
her best. I see her earnest girl face so clearly — 
pleased because she was pleasing, but worried 
a bit, too, in fear lest she forget. Old Faithful 1 
The long, wide room of our summer home, where 
we expressed to its fullest our family life — 
where we lived and frolicked in almost complete 
seclusion from the rest of the world, — opened 
upon a beautiful picture from every one of its 
many windows; in front upon a wide sweep 
of field leading down to the lake and across to a 
wooded ridge against the sky; in back upon 
clean pine trees crowding close; on one side 
upon a bed of tall purple larkspur where the 
humming-birds played even while we sat at our 
meals; at the other end through two narrow 



22 JANE AND I 

windows, either side of the stone fireplace, upon 
the woodbine which made a net-work of green shot 
through, on fair days, with sunshine. A rather 
ancient concert grand piano was against the wall 
on the front side, but it made hardly an im- 
pression on the big room. It was in the wide 
space in front of this that Jane danced — doing 
the very best she knew how. 



IV 

Jane and I went to the village together. It 
was the day late in October that we were to 
have started home — a drive of one hundred and 
eighty miles. But when we rose it was raining, 
so we decided to wait over until the morrow. 
Toward the middle of the forenoon, however, it 
cleared, and I took the car to do some errands. 
Jane came along. She was always ready to 
come along with me. It was cold, and I saw that 
her hands were bare. She had lost her mittens, 
as usual. So we went into a village store and 
I bought her new ones — gloves of brown woolen. 
We tried on many until we found just what we 
wished — gloves that were warm and soft and 
long like gauntlets. They went up well over her 
wrists and she liked them. I thought and felt 
what a pleasure it is to buy for those we love; 



JANE AND I 23 

to be able to furnish them with protection and 
comfort. 

But I had added to her young hfe one more 
responsibility, as I tried to make her understand 
that she must not lose these new gloves. For 
days she watched them in a sort of fear. 



w, 



E WERE back in town. The ride home 
on a crisp day with the sun beaming warm 
from an azure sky — thank God for all the 
sky in her life — had been a dream picture. 
We had driven over frozen roads with the icy 
puddles making a crunching sound as we rolled 
through them. The trees borderi^ng our way 
were scarlet and gold and brown and brilliant 
yellows. For the first twenty miles we kept 
catching glimpses of Washington, covered with 
virgin snow down to where the scarlet trees 
stopped it gorgeously. At the start the mountain 
had a purple hue, but as the sun rose higher this 
vanished, and the summit stood forth white and 
noble like some vast monument to purity. 

We were thrilled and buoyant and happy — 
all of us. Bundled in warm wraps until we could 
hardly move, the cold stung our cheeks crimson, 
but could not reach our bodies. Jane wore her 
brown woolen gloves and a brown cloth Tam — 



24 JANE AND I 

another purchase I had made for her one day 
when we were alone. 

We were back in town and settled to our 
winter work. Jane never looked in better health 
or appeared to be happier. Every morning she 
came into my study with her long shoes still un- 
buttoned, and threw her arms around my neck 
as I sat at work. 

She was going to school, and it was her task to 
prepare the lunch box for herself and her two 
brothers. She never could satisfy them because 
they always wanted more than Mary, the ever- 
thoughtful cook, — backed by the parents — 
considered good for them. 

She always returned at half past one and we 
at lunch used to look for her out the window. 



I 



VI 



T WAS pretty to watch Jane and her Grand- 
father. A very deep and beautiful friendship 
had developed between them. She appealed to 
him because she was so gentle and thoughtful 
and so old-fashioned in her ways. He appealed 
to her because he was so big and kind and de- 
voted. Night after night he used to sit on the 
edge of her bed before she went to sleep and tell 
her stories of his youth, and sing to her the songs 
of his youth — "Old Grimes" and "The Cork 



JANE AND I 25 

Leg" and "Noah's Ark/' Jane joined in the 
choruses with her brave monotone. And laughed 
in whole-souled appreciation of his efforts and 
asked a thousand questions. She was easy to 
please because she was so genuinely interested, 
and so unaffectedly threw herself into the mood 
of the moment. She was rarely self-conscious, 
and then only because of a pretty modesty. 

She went about a good deal with her Grand- 
father — in town to lunch, to the square for a 
cone, and every other Sunday to Uncle Charles' 
for dinner. He was very proud of her, and 
had a right to be. She, in her turn, was delighted 
with him. This Sunday trip however involved 
her in something of a mental conflict. She 
wished to go with "Gramp," and always had 
a good time, but, too, she liked to dine with the 
rest of her family. Yet she did not wish to hurt 
in any way her Grandfather's feelings. So there 
was always a moment or two of indecision, 
though in the end she placed her hand in his 
and went. He was over six feet tall and she 
did not reach his waist, but I doubt if ever in 
his Beau Brummel days he gave his hat a more 
rakish tilt, or swung his cane more gallantly, 
or challenged the world more bravely than he 
did when with her. 

Whenever she was ill he was with her con- 
stantly, night and day, snatching sleep as he 



26 JANE AND I 

could. A summons from Jane brought him from 
his bed at whatever hour. She Hked to place her 
little hand within his big hand and hold on. 

VII 

Jane stood beside me just before bed time 
as I sat at the piano — her hair in two long 
pig-tails and drawn back firmly from her white 
forehead. We were trying to sing, though neither 
of us could sing at all. However, that made no 
difference as long as the song was in our hearts. 
We started with "The Camptown Races" and 
came in strong on the refrain of "Doo Da! Doo 
Da!" And we were pretty good on the last line 
"Oh, I'll bet my money on the bob-tailed mare, 
if somebody'll bet on the gray." 

We wobbled on "Oh, Melinda Brown" but we 
did better on the simpler nursery rhymes which 
followed, like "Georgie Porgie" and "Old King 
Cole," — picked up a bit when we came to 
"Pop Goes the Weasel" and finished strong with 

"I had a little nut tree, 
Nothing would it bear 
Bm/ a silver nut meg 
And a golden pear. 
The King of Spain s daughter 
Came to visit me. 
And all for the sake of my little nut tree. " 



JANE AND I 27 

Jane was shy of her own voice, realizing that 
it would not do her bidding. But she sang inside. 



o. 



VIII 



'N THE last day of November I was to 
take the car to Braintree and put it up for the 
winter I asked Jane to come along with me 
after school. She was glad to do so. I bundled 
her up warm, for it was a bitter gray day follow- 
ing a rain, and the car was open. After she 
was seated, I took the yellow blanket and wound 
it all about her, well up over her chest — more 
than usually anxious, it seems to me, lest she 
catch cold. She laughed at my solicitude. 
Then we began a fool game. As we approached the 
end of a street where a turn was necessary I'd 
pretend I did not see any turn and must go 
straight on over the house tops. 

"Do you think I can make it?" I'd ask anx- 
iously. 

"Daddy, you know you're going to find a turn." 

" I can't see any, but here's one thing I do know 
(that was a line in a funny record we were always 
quoting), we've got to get to Braintree even if 
we go over the house tops." 

And I'd go straight ahead, she getting more 
and more excited, for with all her imagination 
she was literal minded, and then — sure enough, 



28 JANE AND I 

we'd find the turn. Fd pretend to be much 
relieved. 

"Well we escaped that difficulty, Janey." 

We came to the open Charles River. 

"Think we can get over that?*' 

Her face grew serious. 

"The road turns, and you know it," she in- 
sisted. 

"Why, so it does!" I exclaimed, as we swung 
sharply. "Gee, that was a narrow escape. Sup- 
pose it hadnt turned.''" 

We went on through the Fenway and through 
Mattapan — a familiar road, for it was this way 
we journeyed to so many good times at Gram- 
ma's in Scituate — and off Brook Road turned 
sharp to the right. Here I pretended to be lost 
and, before I knew it, really had wandered to a 
strange road. We continued for a couple of miles, 
and then I voiced my fears. 

"We're lost, old lady, hopelessly lost. What 
are we going to do now?" 

"Ask someone." 

"That's a good suggestion. But we must be 
sure to ask just the right person. I'll leave 
that to you." 

As we moved along slowly she watched eagerly 
each passer-by until she saw a man in whom she 
had confidence. She bade me ask him and I 
drew up to the curb. 



JANE AND I 29 

"Follow the car tracks/* he said, "and you'll 
come to a pretty little cement fountain where 
four roads meet. Take the left-hand road.** 

We thanked him and I caught up that line. 

"A pretty little cement fountain where four 
roads meet." 

After the fashion of "You sha'n*t have any 
of my nice, big, yellow peanuts,'* I fooled with 
that catch phrase. 

"We mustn*t miss that pretty little cement 
fountain where four roads meet or we may never 
in our lives see that pretty little cement fountain 
where four roads meet, and so we might wander 
forever hunting for that pretty little cement 
fountain where four roads meet." 

Well, it made her laugh and say "Daddy** 
again. And finally we did find the pretty little 
cement fountain where the four roads meet, and 
it set us right. 

We left the machine at the garage, and on 
foot made our way to the station. Here I bought 
her a copy of "Life**, and pulled out of my coat a 
bag of chocolate peppermints I had found in 
one of the side pockets of the car. On the ride 
home she munched her candy and read "Life.** 
I pretended to look at a paper but spent most 
of my time watching her chuckle over the jokes. 

The last ride we took together — Jane and I. 



30 JANE AND I 

IX 

Jane, for a week, was not ill enough to cause 
alarm. Even when finally we did tuck her into 
her mother's bed, we were not greatly worried. 
But less than three weeks later she was gone. 

X 

HE FACT that overwhelmed me first was 
the brutality of it — the sheer, merciless, incom- 
prehensible brutality of the power which had 
struck down at such a time this beautiful girl 
child. I was appalled at the injustice of it. I 
felt the need of retaliation — of something that 
I could throw my body against. There was 
nothing. Something had stolen out of the dark, 
struck, and vanished again into the dark. The 
cowardly beast! And she was such a good girl. 
Then — the finality of it. I had clung to hope 
in the face of all the evidence before my eyes. . . 
That was inevitable. It was impossible to imagine 
Jane dead until she was dead. My mind could 
not absorb such a thought. I had feared^ — 
feared dreadfully, — but there is a difference 
between fearing and knowing. A terrible differ- 
ence. Up to the last it was possible, minute by 
minute, to do some little thing for her. Up to 
the last it was possible to find some encouraging 



JANE AND I 31 

trifle to grasp at. I am amazed now that I was 
able to do that. But I did. I did up to the last 
second, and then — the unfathomable gulf be- 
tween that second and the second afterwards. 
The difference between the struggling continued, 
however ominously defeat loomed up, and the 
struggle finished, defeat a fact. 

The finahty of it ; Jane here — then Jane gone ! 
Gone irretrievably — mysteriously gone, but gone. 

Gone — yet here. I could still see and feel 
her long braided hair. I could touch her hand, 
and for a little it was warm. In the room, all 
about, lay her Christmas presents; the sewing 
basket Cousin Mell had made for her, running 
all over town for the little spools of silk and the 
tape measure and thimble — running eagerly as 
an expression of love ; the doll with the silk dress 
that those same kind fingers had hurried to have 
ready for her; the half-empty box of crackers 
she had munched ; the small presents her brothers 
had bought out of their scant savings ; the books 
we had read to her hour after hour in order to 
distract her troubled thoughts. Surely she, too, 
was here. It was not possible to blot out in a 
second such a personality. 

Yet she was not here. Something had happened. 
Something was changed. There was no more I 
could do — no more anyone could do. This was 
final. 



32 JANE AND I 

The loss! How a thousand details of the past 
flooded up, helter skelter as though to bring her 
back. How vivid and intense the thousand half- 
forgotten incidents that came to mind. How 
changed they all were. How even her future was 
now the past. The plans we had made for her — 
the dreams we had dreamed for her — the pleas- 
ures which in our eagerness we had anticipated 
for her — the years ahead — all these were gone 
too. It was inconceivable that one could imagine 
this thing until it was. 

I grieved — intensely. That which I loved 
had been wrenched away from me. However 
much was left seemed to make no difference — 
did not in the slightest fill the aching void. I 
wanted Jane — only Jane. My thoughts re- 
fused to steady on anything but her. They 
swung back into the past; they swung forward 
into the future; they came to an awful stand- 
still before the present. 

Friends crept in. They spoke kindly. They 
spoke lovingly, out of full hearts. But their 
words were empty. This did not, could not, 
concern them as it concerned me. I appreciated 
their sympathy. They filled my heart with the 
realization that I was forming with them newer 
and deeper friendships. My love for them was 
vitalized, renewed because of their sincere love of 
Jane; because of their gentle and willing kindness. 



JANE AND I 33 

But I could gather from them nothing in the way 
of consolation, 

I could, at first, gather nothing from myself. 
I had no fixed religious belief to which I could 
turn. I felt God to be an unsolved mystery. 
For many years I had read much and pond- 
ered deeply in an effort to work out some 
intelligent theory of life — some underlying and 
convincing explanation of why we are here, 
whither we are going. Daily contact with my 
children emphasized the need. I was educating 
them, directing them, to what? Without an 
objective how could I set their course .•* I was 
not skeptical but I was inquiring. 

The first day passed and I knew nothing but 
chaos. Then there were details to be handled. 
The question of the service must be determined. 
At this point there came to my mind and to the 
mother's mind, the memory of a young clergy- 
man of whom we had long had good report 
but whom neither of us knew personally. Yet 
instantly we agreed that he was the one through 
whom we could best express our wishes. Some- 
how he had come to stand to us as a man embody- 
ing earnest sincerity, and that, above all things 
else, was what we wished to unfold. We called 
him. He came. We found we were not mistaken 
in our almost inspirational choice. 

But, good as he was, he had never known Jane, 



34 JANE AND I 

and there seemed something heartless in wholely 
turning over to a stranger those last few intimate 
minutes. Even handled as simply and beauti- 
fully as he proposed — a few Psalms, a poem, 
a prayer, and sweet music — I felt something to 
be lacking. It was we, the parents, who were 
missing. This was our child and we were sitting 
dumb. And so, feeling my way, I sat down and 
expressed the mother's thoughts and mine in 
this Prayer of Relinquishment which was read 
at the service: 

Gody our Father, we turn to Tou like little 
children when our hearts are heavy and our thoughts 
perplexed by the great mystery of Death — turn 
to Tou in awe and reverence as the spiritual symbol 
of eternal parenthood. In the full pride and joy 
of life there are times, Lord, when as fathers and 
mothers we may feel sufficient unto ourselves; when, 
in our attitude towards our children we may seem to 
usurp Tour Place. But Tou will understand. 
For if Tou are our symbol, we, too, are Tour symbol. 
If we are in Tou, Tou are in us. In life we serve 
our children as Tour emissaries. In no other spirit 
could we feel for Tou that personal tenderness and 
intimacy we feel for them. We care for them as 
long as we are able, as Tou would care for them; 
we teach and guard and love them as Tou would 
teach and guard and love them. For we are their 
fathers and mothers. And Tou, Lord God of Hosts, 
are not a jealous God. 



JANE AND I 35 

But when one of our children goes from us, the 
mortal parents, to Tou, the eternal parent, then we 
in our turn become as little children. We seek, 
through the veil surrounding Tour presence. Tour 
hand. We listen for Tour comforting voice. We 
search our souls for the God in us which is Tou, 
our Father. We need the thought of Tour Being 
and the Eternal purpose that expresses. 

And we question — question as little children do. 
We ask why it is that a life in the hud, giving promise 
of such rich blossoming, is cut down before its ful- 
filment. Da%ed by the personal loss — by the 
silence where there was laughter — by the sudden 
hushing of that warm, eager little personality — 
there are many things we do not understand. But it 
is not easy for us to believe that this, in any ordi- 
nary sense, is Tour will. We know that in every- 
thing Tou seek completion. We see life continuing 
about us, even now, unceasingly — a new flower 
springing up wherever by chance one falls. And 
so we feel, still not understanding perfectly, that 
Tou must have provided some way of continuance — 
if not Here, then There. We part with our child 
unwillingly. Tou, Father, will understand that 
too. We believe that unwillingly Tou ask us to 
do this. But we believe that somehow, somewhere, 
she will live on — a soul created in love, cherished 
with love, followed by love even into Tour loving 
arms. 



36 JANE AND I 

We have done all we could. We shall still cling 
to as much of her as we may. Her future is no longer 
in our care but Tours. We surrender her to Tou in 
the flush of her early youth — a pure and beautiful 
girl child — our oldest daughter Jane. 

This is the poem — ^^i Stevenson's "In Memor- 
iam F.A.S" — that we read, adapting it to Jane: 

Yet, stricken heart, remember, remember 
}iiow of human days she lived the better part. 
April came to bloom and never dim December 
breathed its killing chills upon the head or heart. 

Doomed to know not Winter, only Spring, a being 
Trod the flowery April blithely for a while, 
Took her fill of music, joy of thought and seeing. 
Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile. 

Came and stayed and went, and now when all 

is finished. 
You alone have crossed the melancholy stream. 
Yours the pang, but hers, hers, the undiminished 
JJndecaying gladness, ufideparted dream. 

All that life contains of torture, toil and treason, 
Shame, dishonour, death to her were but a name. 
Here, a girl, she dwelt through all the singing 

season 
And ere the day of sorrow departed as she came. 



JANE AND I 37 

XI 

X HE PRAYER sprang into being sponta- 
neously. The significant feature of it to me was 
that in the space of a few minutes I had swung 
from a negative conception of God to a positive. 
He was still a symbol, but to explain Him in 
any more definite terms was, I found, not neces- 
sary. Vague though He was, mysterious though 
He might be, inexplicable though He must ever 
be. He was so inevitably essential to an under- 
standing of my new emotions that I could not 
think without Him. He was the expression of 
something in me bigger than I, by myself, could 
contain. My conception of fatherhood had grown 
suddenly to proportions exceeding the limits of 
my own mind. I was perforce following Jane 
into Eternity. Years were no longer long enough. 
Without this sense of continuance it was im- 
possible for me to read any meaning whatever 
either into her brief life here or my own. 
Impressively it was borne in upon me that 
without this idea of immortality, involved in 
God, Life and Love sink to a level of triviality 
utterly abhorent; our highest emotions possess 
no more than current value. Without this be- 
lief, parenthood itself is undeserving of recogni- 
tion and grief over the loss of a child as ignoble 



38 JANE AND I 

and as pettily personal as concern over the loss 
of property. There is no escape from this grim 
logic. I had a precious gift and I lost it. If 
that were all, then my great sorrow was only a 
weakness. It was even ludicrous. 

But I knew this was not the truth, for after 
the first wrench of physical separation I had 
been steadily moving toward a vision of Jane 
finer and more perfect than any I had ever 
had. This was based upon the deeper and 
more hallowed emotions which until now had 
been buried beneath the surface. I was no more 
reconciled to her going, in any ordinary sense, 
than before. That was impossible. I craved as 
much as ever her warm, vital presence. But, too, 
I was getting below that beautiful exterior to the 
soul of her — to the imperishable soul of her. 
My love was broadening with every passing 
minute. Previously I had been able to compass 
her within a decade, but now I was satisfied 
with nothing less than time immeasurable. 

With this lengthened perspective — a perspec- 
tive born not so much of inspiration as from 
the logic of the new conditions — I began to see 
in a difjferent light what at first had oppressed 
me as poignant cruelties. I had mourned the 
loss of Jane's future — the future I had built up 
in my own mind. I felt that, without this, she 
had died incomplete — had been struck down un- 



JANE AND I 39 

finished. But, as I reasoned now, this was not 
true. She was complete — up to the point she 
had gone. And none of us can hope to attain to 
anything more than that. She was as complete 
at ten as she would have been at twenty or forty 
or eighty. We cannot say that we are ever 
complete. She was not a broken blossom: a 
blossom — yes, but a perfect and complete blos- 
som. 

With this lengthened perspective I received, 
too, a new light on death itself. It always comes 
and always will, as a ghastly surprise, and yet, 
without being morbid, it is easy to realize that 
from the moment we begin to live we begin to 
die. Every day is a page turned over in the Book 
of Life — a finished page bringing us one day 
nearer the final page. Yesterday, for all of us, 
is as dead as though a thousand years ago. Had 
Jane lived to be twenty we must have seen the 
girl of ten vanish as completely as in the girl of 
ten the child of two had vanished. The meta- 
morphosis, in life, is more gradual but it is just as 
complete — just as final. This is not a fact to 
brood over, but to recognize it makes the last 
great Change seem less startlingly abrupt. 

It makes, too, by analogy, the idea of contin- 
uance even more convincingly logical. We have 
every right to infer — a greater right certainly 
than those who deny — that the same law govern- 



40 JANE AND I 

ing us through our earthly experience will re- 
main unbroken at this Life's supremest moment. 
We may change but we will not cease. Other- 
wise there is no law, and nothing remains but 
anarchy — chaos. If this is all, then our human 
and temporal passions cannot be regarded as 
even tragical. They become merely contemptible. 
Anything so ephemeral, so whimsically accidental 
as that would connote cannot be said to matter 
one way or the other. 

In order, then, to maintain the dignity of our 
love — which involves the dignity of our soul — 
no alternative but a belief in immortality is 
possible. If we do away with the one, we must 
do away with the other. No man who has loved 
and been loved by a child like Jane could face 
such an alternative. 

With this lengthened perspective I received 
a new point of view on my personal grief. I 
saw that it was largely selfish and to that extent 
false. I was altogether too self-centred in my 
emotions. I had thought of myself as devoted 
to my daughter, and yet in this crisis I was dwell- 
ing not on her but on myself. That was literally 
true. My grief (was not based on what she had 
lost but on what I had lost. I was not worrying 
about her new condition. It never occurred to 
me^to doubt but that she was happy in what- 
ever plane she had found herself — happy and 



JANE AND I 41 

content. I could not be specific. I have no 
picture of her surroundings, no theory, not 
even a conception — and feel no need of one; 
but I am confident that in no way she suffers. 

Even in thinking of her lost future on earth 
I had not been so much concerned with what 
had been taken away from her as in what had 
been taken away from me. 

I faced this fact with deep humiliation. To 
dwell upon myself at a time like this was not 
commendable. It suggested more a love of self 
than a love of Jane. 

I saw clearly that my own suffering was a 
relatively unimportant matter. It was not in 
this self-centred spirit that I had cared for Jane 
here. In those days I eliminated all thought 
of self. That, more completely than ever, I must 
do now. Otherwise my love was meaningless. 

Ever since, I have kept my thoughts on Jane 
and this has helped wonderfully. 

As the weeks creep by I feel that perhaps 
right here lies the solution of the whole problem 
of successful continued living in the face of such 
a catastrophe as this — and surely if I seek con- 
tinued living for her, I must for myself, — right 
here in a continuance of the same relationship 
with Jane which governed me while she could 
still walk by my side. I must consider her and 
not myself. She is today as much my daughter 



42 JANE AND I 

as yesterday. There are many little things I 
cannot do for her, but after all they are little 
things. I can buy for her no more Tam o* Shan- 
ters or woolen gloves, but that was not very 
much to do. My important gifts — if any — were 
as intangible as ether — were of the heart. They 
were the gifts of love. Those gifts I can con- 
tinue. I may miss the pleasure of the visible 
reaction, but that is not important. It was not 
important before. In everything I did I had a 
secret joy of which she knew nothing and that 
I may still have or it is possible that she — 
now that she is infinitely wiser than I — may 
see into all my secret places and so share every- 
thing with me. 

We must go on, Jane and I, in the same old 
spirit of genial comradeship. As I refuse to think 
of her as dead, I must not allow her to think of 
me as dead. I must live and give as I did before — 
give more honestly and less selfishly of my affec- 
tion. I must be joyful and alive in my thoughts 
of her — walking by her side the new paths as 
well as the old. Things are not as I would have 
them, but they are as they are. That rnuch is 
final. But nothing else is final either with her 
or with me. To believe otherwise would be to 
destroy all meaning for everything which has 
so far been. It would be to belittle the glorious 
past — to make insignificant the very things that 



JANE AND I 43 

are most significant. If that complex, vibrant 
personality can be bounded by the brief period 
of ten years, it is not the wonderful and beauti- 
ful creation I know it to be. And then not 
anything at ail in life is of import. That is 
unthinkable. 

Nothing less than the majestic conception of 
eternity is big enough to dignify fatherhood and 
motherhood and childhood. Nothing less can 
explain them; nothing less fulfill them. 

So we must press on — Jane and I. We 
must not let our lives rest here. We must no 
longer limit ourselves to days but think in terms 
of time unending. 

We must press on. Someday — somewhere — 
somehow, we shall meet once more. The certainty 
of that is Jane*s last fine gift to me. 

FINIS 



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